


ladder of your own design

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Basically Just Filth: Memo Style, Couch Sex, F/M, Filth Involving Elevators, Filth Involving Staircases, Sexting: Sixties Style, Too Spicy Too Spicy, hot off the presses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Lane is positive nobody reads the company memos. Joan takes this as a personal challenge.
Relationships: Joan Holloway/Lane Pryce
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56





	ladder of your own design

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @MasterofAllImagination for the beta, and for letting me keysmash about these dorks!

Sighing as he took a deep draught from the whiskey in his nearly-empty glass, Lane turned his attention back to the typewriter, where the memorandum he had been composing for a quarter of an hour still lay unfinished in its carriage—hating him—taunting him.

No one in the office read the damn things. He knew that much. And still he persisted in writing them, all because of what? Stubbornness? Frustration? A complete refusal to concede to office modernity? No, it couldn’t be that. He was the  _ epitome  _ of a modern man, thank you very much. A stakeholding entrepreneur! A divorcé! A single parent on some holidays! Perhaps he wasn’t going to grow his hair out past his ears or show up in the office without a tie. Or even a tie pin. But he was no doddering pensioner.

He could be as rock and roll as any young fellow, if he so chose!

It was probably this rebellious spirit which caused him to add an improvisational line to the middle of his explanation about  _ Life Magazine’s  _ illegal distillery and the subsequent leak that had plagued their offices for the majority of the summer:

> _...although I am assured that the activities which caused said plumbing woes have now ceased, one never knows what will happen in future. And had I known our landlord was to be so lenient in these matters, I might as well have opened a bloody nightclub venue in my corner of the office as opposed to staying in my current role.  _
> 
> _ At any rate, those persons on the left side of the premises ought to remove any valuable papers or objects from their desks until this matter is fully resolved. _

##

When Joan picked up Lane’s latest memo—a message which had really buried the lede on the moonshine still that was operating upstairs—she assumed it was more notices about water shut-offs and construction in the office.

And then she got to the line about the nightclub venue. She was so shocked when she read it that she forgot to use her at-work laugh, and cackled the way she would have if a cute boy in the fourth grade had said something funny in class.

_ I might as well have opened a bloody nightclub venue in my corner of the office as opposed to staying in my current role. _

It was a joke. A joke in the bi-weekly memo. A memo that  _ Bert Cooper _ was copied on, for god’s sake!

Joan wasn’t sure what was more shocking: the fact that Lane was so used to being ignored that he’d stuck a curse word and a fairly ribald joke in the middle of a memo about plumbing concerns, or the fact that his joke involved switching jobs to such a hilarious extreme. (Picturing him as an oily nightclub owner made her want to giggle until she choked to death.) Either way, it deserved more than a passing compliment in the hallway between meetings.

Tapping her ballpoint pen against the desk as she considered how to respond, Joan’s next idea was so perfect it made her gasp out loud. Rolling her chair over to the table where her typewriter sat empty, she threaded Lane’s memo into the carriage, adjusted the platen till the guide was surrounded by white blank space, and checked her margins before placing her fingers on the keys.

> _ Date: January 8, 1965 _
> 
> _ To: Mr. Lane Pryce, Partner & CFO _
> 
> _ From: Mrs. Joan Harris, Director of Agency Operations _
> 
> _ Extension: 448 _
> 
> _ Subject: Re: Continued plumbing concerns on the 38th floor _
> 
> _ Thank you for your update on this issue. Per the latest news, I have additional questions regarding your recent employment opportunities. _
> 
> _1\. When is your first day in your new role as Nightclub Financial Officer?_
> 
> _1.a What is the name of said venue?_
> 
> _1.b I don’t think we will be able to write off bulk purchases of tiny tassels, loose glitter, or feathered accessories in our ‘65 returns. Please advise as to how these added expenses should now be noted in the books._
> 
> _1.c Will janitorial services be increased to better support a second illegal subletting of a Time-Life Building space?_
> 
> _ Sincerely, _
> 
> _ Joan Holloway Harris _
> 
> _ Director of Agency Operations _
> 
> _  
>  CC:  _ _ Financial Directors _

##

Oh, dear god, Mrs. Harris had  _ noticed his idiot joke. _

Bad enough that he’d been a bit squiffy while writing that memo. But Lane really wasn’t sure how to answer her in kind, not without seeming like an idiot or perhaps a dreadful bore. Perhaps if he slipped another one into the next company memorandum, she would know that he had received her answer all in good fun. And he needn’t worry about embarrassing himself.

He considered the best way to accomplish this task without sounding like a madman to the rest of the staff. After several hours of thought, four cups of tea, and a rather large turkey sandwich, the solution finally came to him.

>   
>  _Date: 9th January, 1966_
> 
> _ Subject: Janitorial services increased for week of 15th January _
> 
> _ Per last week’s memorandum regarding the continued plumbing issues on the 38th floor, a solution has been reached that should satisfy all concerned parties. Until further leaks from the distillery can be contained, janitorial services will be increased from once nightly to twice per day, so employees may enjoy a clean workspace at all times. If this means said janitorial staff will be sweeping up twice as many errant feathers instead of mopping up moonshine, I suspect the outcome shall be very welcome indeed. _

##

By the middle of March, Lane had given up on all earlier pretenses, and had simply begun sending his joke memorandums directly to Mrs. Harris, who received and responded to them on a frankly prolific basis. The note she had sent over this morning was particularly droll:

> _ Date: March 20, 1965 _
> 
> _ Re: Increased role responsibilities _
> 
> _ As incoming director of Glitterati’s nightclub operations, I am happy to note that our regular liquor delivery has come in as scheduled, which should account for a charming increase in our Friday night clientele. Recommend charging double for the 5pm performance especially - watching S.R. and K.C. sprint to the elevators in their coats is bound to get some idiot’s blood pumping. _
> 
> _ J.H. _
> 
> _ CC: _
> 
> _ Financial Directors _
> 
> _ Date: 21 March 1965 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Increased role responsibilities _
> 
> _ C.F.O. is certain that the idea of two consecutive days off each week should get anyone’s “blood pumping,” as you say. C.F.O. also believes this aphorism could apply to himself on this particular day, should he decide to make a sudden dash to the exits. (He is at the moment regretfully trapped in a two-hour long-distance telephone call with largest company stakeholder, and is contemplating smashing said stakeholder over the ear with the roller knobs.) Please rescue C.F.O. from such awful business at your earliest convenience. _
> 
> _ L.P. _
> 
> _ CC:  _ _ Financial Directors _

##

> _ Date: 20 June 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Re: Resuming all normal duties _
> 
> _ Glitterati is delighted to welcome back our director of agency operations once more. You will note that the unfortunate plumbing problem has finally ceased since your return; as a result, our liquor costs are now up an alarming 15% YOY. How you shall solve such deficits is up to you; I have turned my attention to more pressing matters, such as the rather blue jokes now issuing from our writers’ room on a regular basis. Alas! our many years of clean family smut may be coming to an end. _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: June 21, 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: Solving YOY and YTD distillery deficit  
>  _
> 
> _ You haven’t run a clean club since we stole everything in ‘63, and you know it. _
> 
> _ Interested to hear if these blue jokes have improved at all since my time away, although I doubt half-decent smut is involved, knowing the comedians. I think if some of them even saw a dancing woman through a doorway they might spontaneously combust. _
> 
> _ J.H. _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: 22 June 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: Re: Possible doorway repairs _
> 
> _ I imagine any blazing leaps toward spontaneous human combustion might depend on the dancing woman in question. They don’t seem the type to be smitten with secretaries and errand girls, after all. _
> 
> _ Additionally, I am inclined to point out that your door has been ajar since approximately nine oh eight this morning. Perhaps you speak from experience and not just from speculation? _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: June 22, 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: Re: Possible doorway repairs _
> 
> _ Yes, my door has been open since nine o’clock this morning. Didn’t I tell you I was working on a little show of my own? We’re in previews as I write this. The censors are already shocked. _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: 24 June 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Possible doorway repairs _
> 
> _ Given the healthy state of your diversified assets, “little” is not a term I would use to describe this lovely-stroke-shocking turn of events. Unless, perhaps, you mean to tease your audience very awfully, and shall keep the entire routine a secret until opening night? _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: June 24, 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Re: Possible doorway repairs _
> 
> _ Well, a girl can’t be expected to reveal all her assets to just anyone. Maybe you could preview a breast or thigh. Or both. _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: 25 June 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Re: Re: Possible doorway repairs _
> 
> _ My my. And just what will our star performer do after she has shown off her bare breast and thigh? (You may assume the viewing audience is ready to see any and all parts that may be revealed over the course of an evening show.) _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: June 26, 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Re: Re: Re: Possible doorway repairs _
> 
> _ Personally? I think she’d fuck her audience of one senseless. _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: 27 June 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Re: Re: Re: Possible doorway repairs _
> 
> _ Please elaborate at length. _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: July 6, 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Continued discussion of performance _
> 
> _ Off the top of my head? I’d take you back to my dressing room after the show, unwrap you suit-piece by suit-piece, and promptly fuck you till the chair gave out from under us. _
> 
> _ Date: 6 July 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Continued discussion of performance _
> 
> _ Well. Must admit the counterfactual you’ve created is delicious, although I imagine you would be an utter tease until that point in time. What would you do with me before we reach your vanity chair, hm? _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: July 6, 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Re: Continued discussion of performance _
> 
> _ Flash you in the elevator when nobody else is looking. Or blow you between floors 37 and 7 when we’re alone. I haven’t decided how wobbly your legs should be by the time we hit the ground. Or if I should let you finish. _

##

Upon picking up Joan’s latest memo from his inbox, Lane read the first sentence, broke into a sweat, and had to get up to pour himself a fortifying draught of whiskey. “Oh, good god.”

##

> _ Date: 8 August 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Re: Re: Continued discussion of performance _
> 
> _ My legs seem to have forgotten walking altogether after reading that... _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: August 15, 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Possible solutions _
> 
> _ Have you ever thought about what we could do outside of elevators? A friend of mine once told her husband he couldn’t take her to bed until she had been ravished on every step of the staircase. (They lived in a brownstone - at least twenty stairs up from their front door to the second-floor bedroom.) _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Date: 15 August 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Possible solutions _
> 
> _ There are eighteen steps between each floor in this building, if the full stairwell has been built to proper specifications. Eighteen times thirty six equals six hundred forty eight stairs – not counting the landings between each of the nine-step staircases!  _
> 
> _ If, then, you require my intimate attentions on every single one before I may take you to bed, I suggest we begin on the ground floor very soon. Time and tide for no woman bide. _
> 
> _ Date: August 18, 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Approximate number of staircases _
> 
> _ Actually, I don’t require “intimate attentions on every single stair,” although you’re certainly in the right ballpark. I want you to finger-fuck me until your hands cramp. I want you to eat me until my legs are shaking too hard to hold me up. I want to come so many times that I forget there are six hundred and forty eight stairs between the 37th floor and the main lobby. In short: I want as much as you’ll give me. Are you up for it? _
> 
> _ Date: 20 August 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Approximate number of staircases _
> 
> ~~_ It certainly has my attention _ ~~
> 
> ~~_ You may find I am up for a good many things _ ~~
> 
> ~~_ At this very minute, several Nobel laureates are chewing their hands off with envy at such vivid prose _ ~~

With a frustrated whine, Lane crumpled up the memo draft in his hand, shoving it to one side of his desk. He was no good for writing, anyway. His hands were trembling like a couple of windblown leaves, and he’d been in an indecent state since quarter-past ten, thanks to Mrs. Harris’s frankly astonishing way with words. 

Well. Who was he kidding. He’d been in an indecent state for weeks.

Letting out a breath, trying to dispel the pulsing tightness in his groin, Lane reminded himself very sternly that he was at work, and that no good could come of this. Yes. The pile of important papers in his inbox would not grow any smaller before the long weekend, and thus, he simply had to tackle them.

He managed to gather his tattered composure and get through about a quarter of the stack before there was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Harris entered.

Upon seeing her, he made a very strange high-pitched sound ( _ ulp!) _ , went rigid in his chair, and slashed a black streak directly across the expense report Campbell had submitted earlier that week.

“Hi,” she said, after a short pause. Her eyes were fixed to the clipboard in her hand.

“‘Lo.” Lane hoped with all his might that his voice sounded normal, and not—as he feared—uneven as a schoolboy’s. “Erm. What's ...all that?”

He gestured a vague hand to the clipboard.

Following his gaze, Joan then glanced down at her shoes, seeming puzzled. After a moment, she looked back at the papers in her hand. “Oh. You mean these.” She let out a breath. “Break-evens. Caroline just dropped them off.”

“Ah,” said Lane. He was fairly confident that he was sweating again. “Good.”

“Yes. Well, I thought you might like to get them on your desk before the holiday,” Joan said, stepping forward as if she were merely going to drop them in his inbox. Although she did not stutter, Lane thought he saw a bit of color rise in her cheeks. “But you seem busy, so I’ll just....”

“No! I mean, yes, I am busy, but not—erm—just put them over there. The bed—the couch. Wherever.”

The braying laugh that tore from his throat was every bit as awkward as he imagined. Joan did not mock him for this, nor did she immediately toss the break evens away to be destroyed, simply walked up to his desk, and held out the file to him.

“Here,” she murmured.

At first, Lane thought that she was simply bobbing the folder in front of him in an impatient way, as if to say,  _ for god’s sake, hurry up and take this so I can get out of here.  _ But when he looked closer, the full truth washed over him like a beam of sunshine.

Her hand was trembling.

Incredulous, he took the file, and deposited it to one side of his desk as quickly as he dared. On closer inspection, the conclusion was the same. Although Joan’s expression was more or less impassive, the sudden quirk of her lip suggested she might be biting the inside of her cheek. And she had both hands folded in front of her, which only let him hear the tinkling of her charm bracelet as she knotted her fingers together.

His eyes widened. Her hands were shaking.  _ She was shaking.  _ Had he actually made her—nervous? Excited? Hot for it? Clearly, he was not the only one affected by their little game: an idea which thrilled him so deeply he could hardly put it into words. And then he realized he had spoken no words at all since she had handed over her file. Oh, good lord!

“Sorry,” Lane cleared his throat, and gave Joan a significant look over the top of his spectacles. “Anyway, I’m certain I can finish this off by, ah, end of day. With a bit of elbow grease.”

Her eyebrows rose toward her hairline, and the slight color in her cheeks bloomed into an honest-to-God flush that extended down past the high collar of her dress. If Lane weren’t already standing at full mast, he would have leapt into the air in triumph.

“Okay. See you later,” was all she said, rather hastily, before walking away.

Lane waited until the tap of her high heels had faded before allowing himself a small victory cheer. It did not matter that the victory only lasted so long as it took him to remember he was hard as iron and extremely uncomfortable, or that he could not address this problem for another hour, at least. 

He’d made Joan Harris blush _ ,  _ and he would mark it all the same.

##

> _ Date: 26 August 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: State of your inbox _
> 
> _ Dare I drop by this afternoon to put a little something in your inbox? I can hardly look at you in a crowded room without wanting to fuck you silly. _
> 
> _ Date: August 29, 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: State of your inbox _
> 
> _ Wonder what you get up to when you’re not looking at me… thought about it for almost an hour last night. Thrice. _
> 
> _ Date: 30 August 1966 _
> 
> _ Subject: RE: Re: Re: State of your inbox _
> 
> _ You will  not move me with your use of thrice, you utter minx. _
> 
> _ In point of fact, I can no longer move from behind my desk, as you have driven me to a lust-deranged madness. _

  
  


##

That evening, Joan found herself getting on the elevator at four fifteen, along with a few other people. She was leaving the office two hours earlier than normal, but couldn’t wait another second. Maybe her mother wouldn’t be home yet, so she could lock her bedroom door and peel off her soaked panties and—

Someone stuck the end of their briefcase through the doors just as they were closing; Joan looked up and met Lane’s stunned gaze as he boarded the elevator. She tried to smile at him; it was wobbly, charged. He crept into the far left corner without a word.

Oh, my god. Joan couldn’t stop looking at him. Some idiot from  _ Life  _ was standing between them, smelling like menthols and bad cologne, but it didn’t matter because her entire body was on fire and her knees wobbled even more just thinking about what she’d written a few weeks ago.  _ Maybe I’ll blow you in the elevator. If I let you finish.  _ Exhaling, she looked up at the dial as the elevator stopped at floor thirty four, hoping for an easy escape. 

When the guy between them moved to let more people board, Joan also couldn’t resist giving Lane a pointed glance. He pressed his lips together, and looked away.

Floor thirty two. Pause to let people on. Thirty one. Pause. Twenty-nine. 

Jesus Christ. She moved back an inch and let herself lean against the elevator wall so she could feel the cool metal through her clothes, soothe her flushed skin.

It was obvious Lane was just as affected as she was; he was taking slow, deep breaths through his nose and very purposefully not meeting her eyes. The hand holding his briefcase was white-knuckled, and a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face beneath his hat.

Floor fourteen. God, she wanted to lean in and lick the salt from his cheek before it could trickle down into his collar, bite his earlobes, suck a hickey into his shoulder. And then she wanted to throw herself off the elevator just for  _ thinking _ that in a crowded car. Why the hell had she written so many damn memos about elevator sex? What on earth was wrong with her? Jesus Christ, at the rate this elevator was moving, she’d be perfectly happy with a quickie in the lobby or in the middle of the cafeteria, as long as it meant everyone else would leave and she and Lane could be alone together already!

She looked left again, and this time met Lane’s dark gaze head-on, just as the elevator dinged again. 

“Oh,” he rasped, soft—pained. Like even this was too much. “No. Got to—ngk.”

Joan checked the dial: tenth floor.

The faces in the hall reflected flat disappointment. Nobody else could board their car, given how crowded it was. But Joan did not expect Lane to make a low, desperate sound under his breath, and begin nudging his way forward.  _ Sorry. Sorry. _

“Taking the stairs?” she asked, as Lane picked his way out of the car, and turned around.

Her only consolation was that she could pinpoint the exact moment he realized having ninety stairs between him and the lobby wasn’t a better alternative to riding down ten more floors in a crowded elevator car. His jaw dropped in visible horror as the doors closed.

Okay, Joan thought as she let out a small, shaky breath. Maybe the staircase sex memo had been one of her brighter ideas.

##

The next day, Thursday, Joan arrived at the usual time and unlocked the office, only to find it completely empty. As she took off her coat and hat, wondering why so many people were running late today, it hit her like a ton of bricks: the long weekend.

“Shit,” she hissed to no one, and stomped the tile several times in frustration before throwing her purse into the floor. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Ten minutes later, feeling calmer and quieter, she heard footsteps outside her door and poked her head outside, only to see Lane in the lobby with that same deer-in-headlights expression on his face.

“The holiday,” he croaked out, and then groaned, long and low. “Oh, damn it.”

“Could always go home,” Joan offered, although she was certain that if she tried to hail a taxi cab right now, she would feel lightheaded all the way back to the house.

“No.” He made a displeased noise. “‘M already here. May as well be useful.”

“Right.” Joan swallowed thickly. Tried to smile. “Well, um. Good luck with—all of that.”

The look he gave her now was nothing short of pleading, although he managed to straighten his shoulders before pulling his keys out of his coat pocket. “Thanks.”

Sighing, Joan closed her office door, went back to her desk, and sat down. She felt about as productive as a hamster that had been caught in its wheel and was just spinning around and around, but what the hell was she supposed to do in the meantime, knowing Lane was just outside her door, all alone? Go shopping? Go home? Do paperwork?

_ Screw him until he screams, obviously! For god’s sake... _

Her door burst open. Startling at the noise, Joan had just enough time to see how red Lane’s face was before he launched into his tirade. 

“All right, that’s enough; I can’t take any more of this! You have sent me all sorts of—of—the most _obscene_ messages I have ever read outside a university toilet stall! For Christ’s sake, the Marquis de Sade himself probably glimpsed some of your later work and thought, _oh, I’m in the wrong bloody profession, because I’ve inspired precisely zero people into homicidal levels of lust this morning!_ I can only assume he heard one line from the staircase memo and discorporated on the spot! While I—you may well be the most gorgeous woman this side of the Atlantic, but I am only a man, and I cannot read _another_ _goddamned word_ without fucking you well into next Tuesday! Perhaps then you’ll see what it’s been like to—to—” he waved his hands in the space between them as if shooing away a pesky fly “—deal with this torment, alone, with no end in sight!” Gasping for breath, he swiped at his mouth with one hand before reaching out to tap the papers in her inbox. “And I’m gonna pleasure you in ways you never even _wrote_ about in those clever little papers, hm? Nine of them. Twenty of them. Just—” His eyes were glazed, blown open. “Number doesn’t matter. I am going to do it. And you. Immediately.”

By now, his voice had lost the hysterical shouting quality it had at the beginning of his speech, and he was starting to sputter. And Joan didn’t give a shit.

“I’ll get my coat,” she said, as if he’d just presented her with the theorem of the century.

Lane’s eyes narrowed, then bugged out to comic proportions as she rose from her seat. His mouth fell open. “Oh. Erm. Hang on—”

He didn’t even bother to finish the sentence, just hurried back toward his office. Joan heard a small thump, then a louder one, and then something that sounded like the coat rack falling over as his door crashed closed.

She didn’t care. She had her purse on her shoulder and her keys in her hand—the doorknob was locked—her briefcase could stay here over the weekend.

This time, when she met Lane’s heavy-lidded gaze, it sent a shiver through her entire body. Oh, fuck. They were really going to do this.

Wordlessly, Lane indicated that he was ready to follow her. But before Joan could move, she heard a small  _ ping!  _ and saw, rather than felt, one of her earrings go skidding across the tile floor and into the creative lounge.

“Damn it,” she growled, and stalked over to find it. Stupid earrings. Stupid floor. 

“Here.” Lane turned on a lamp, and put his coat onto the round table. “Can you...?”

“Can’t find it,” Joan snarled, getting up from the ground and shaking her coat off for good measure. Nothing fell out; she tossed it in the direction of her office. It hit the leg of the record player; the needle scratched over the vinyl for good measure. A record she didn’t recognize jolted to life with a blur of drums and electric guitars. “Jesus. Goddamn it all to hell.”

“Joan.” Lane crossed the room, put a hand on her elbow. “It’s all right. I mean, we can always...” he blinked, and seemed to realize just how close they were standing to each other. Slowly, his other hand came up to cup her face. The pad of his thumb caressed her chin as the music got faster. He couldn’t stop looking at her mouth. She felt lightheaded again. “We can...”

Gasping, she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in for a kiss, just as he moved forward. The noise he made when their lips met was feral; she had never heard him sound like that before. She wanted more—everything he would give her.

“Fuck,” he rasped when he pulled away, his mouth wet and red. His glasses were askew, perched on the top of his forehead. “Fuck.”

Joan was already shoving his sport coat from his shoulders as he yanked her shirttails up from her skirt. They fell backwards onto the sofa as she fumbled with one of his suspenders; it unclipped from his belt loops with a metallic  _ ping!  _ and shot backwards, dinging the wall behind them.

She sputtered out a hooting laugh, helpless, and Lane grinned at her in a knowing way before pulling her down into his lap, one hand sneaking up her blouse to thumb at a nipple before he kissed her again. And suddenly all the urgency from before was back; he was touching her everywhere with those thick blunt fingers and his mouth was on her neck and she couldn’t get enough of him. Panting, she pressed her forehead into his shoulder as those same fingers dipped past her waistband for the first time, brushing over short hair before trailing downward. When he touched her in earnest, Lane hissed out a curse, and his hips thrust up against her left knee, still planted between them.

“So wet for me.”

Joan couldn’t answer, just bucked up into his hand with a groan.

He had her there in no time at all, using finger and thumb to send her into a spiral of delight. She had barely come down when he plunged two fingers inside her, stretching her open till her legs quivered and her arms felt like jelly and he had to kiss her quiet through the next rush; she was whimpering so loudly the whole floor could have heard them.

This time, she collapsed forward into his waiting arms, relishing the desperate sounds he made as he rutted against her leg. When she got his trousers open, and reached down to palm his bare cock for the first time, a shudder flew through his entire body. His eyes fluttered closed as she ran a thumb over his head, experimental.

“Won’t last,” he gritted out as they moved the head of his cock into position, and Joan sank down on him. “Oh, Christ, that’s—”

“I know,” Joan breathed as he bottomed out. “I know.”

“Fuck,” he groaned. His hands dug into her hips, clung to her rucked-up skirt and her garter belt and her stockings as she began to move. “Fuck, love.”

“Yes.” She wanted to laugh again; every muscle in her body rippled with that taut beautiful heat and Lane was tilting his head into her hands and she felt so good, so damn good, how the hell had they waited this long to feel this good? “Come on.”

Lane whined low in his throat, now palming one of her bare breasts. Her bra was still fastened but was hooked limp around her waist. Joan ran two hands through the sides of his hair, used her nails to make him shiver again.

“Hnnng.” His eyes flew open, and his hips stuttered up against hers. Even in the dim light, she could see his pulse fluttering in his neck, same as she could feel him pulsing inside her. “Feels so good, Joan. Oh, god.”

Heat was building deep inside her, now, every muscle in her body pulling so tight she was sure she would snap like a rubber band. And Lane was just beautiful under her, flushed and breathless and desperate, clawing at her lower back with these low animal groans, oh  _ fuck,  _ her hands were going numb, she couldn’t breathe, she had to go faster, she was going to—

With a noise like a sob, Lane bucked up and came; the tremors of his body and the wild cries he made as he went through it sent Joan over the edge at last; she shook apart with her face pressed into his neck and her fists clenched in his hair.

Several minutes later, still panting, he made a soft noise against her ear, and pressed a palm against her lower back. “All right?”

“Oh, yeah,” she huffed, and waved a hand to tell him he could pull out if he wanted. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face. 

Although Lane couldn’t see her, he could obviously feel her teeth bared against his neck, and snorted in amusement. “That was….” He shifted under her, rubbing both palms along her sides in an idle, slow way. “Worth the wait.”

Still grinning, Joan sat up a little so she could see him, drinking in his pinked cheeks and starry eyes as he looked back at her. God, he was so handsome this way.

“I didn’t even think about the creative lounge.” Heaving out a breath, she couldn’t find the words to say exactly what she meant, but the way she tilted her head at the scattered clothes around them and met his quirked eyebrow said:  _ Clearly that was a mistake. _

Lane burst out laughing.  “Save it for the next one,” he managed through a giggle. 

Yelping in delight, Joan swatted his shoulder with a hand before settling back down against his chest with a sigh, leaning in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song [Fire Engine](https://open.spotify.com/track/4Kk36TRwdIMduz9wOrJlc0?si=taI6XnoTQAmchfxvpIo3sw), from The Psychedelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators. Their album of the same name was one of the first psychedelic rock albums.


End file.
